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Now I know that your mind didn't do anything of the sort. Come on, now, Algy, who sent this to you?" "Cousin of mine up in Harwick. I wish you weren't so Billy-be-dashed sharp, Average. I used to visit in Harwick, so they asked me to get you interested in Bailey Prentice's case. He's the lost boy." "You've done it. Now tell me all you know."
"I don't know what you're up to, Average," he complained. "Is it a catch?" "No; it's a test case. What would you do?" "I'd think it was Billy-be-dashed queer," answered Spofford with profound conviction. "You're getting on," said Jones tartly. "And next?" "Ay? How do I know? What're you devilin' me this way for?" "You wouldn't call a policeman?" "No," said Spofford, staring.
I've been through the post-office department from the information window here to the postmaster-general in Washington, and nobody'll help me find Mortimer Morley." "Then let me introduce him; Algy, this is Mortimer Morley; in less private life Mr. Tim Farley, and his wife, Mrs. Farley, Mr. Spofford." "Well, I'll be Billy-be-dashed," exploded Mr. Spofford. "How did you work it out, Average?"
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